A Wall Never Built
by TheGoldenCrown
Summary: A very rough idea of how Sherlock's reaction to the wedding in Sherlock Season Three might go. No spoilers; I haven't seen it yet. K for safety. Mahn and a bit of Sherlolly.


**A/N: Kay, I'm a bit scared to share this right now, cause it's barely edited and potentially really OOC, but, hey, what's life without a few dragons? Please don't tell me what actually happens at the wedding. I haven't seen it yet. That's kind of the point of this fic. Any feedback should be on whether Holmes and Watson are IC or not. Thank you if you are brave enough to read and kind enough to review.**

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He heard the song begin for the new couple's dance and felt a pang go through him. There was more emotion in the way that first note touched him than he had felt for that long stretch of life Before John.

He was happy; honestly, truly, inarguably happy for his best friend and his beautiful new wife. He was glad John was happy, glad Mary was happy, glad to be with them, glad to be included.

And that was good. It was what he was supposed to feel.

But he was fairly sure it wasn't socially acceptable to be depressed and terrified at the idea of losing his best friend to marriage.

Molly cut into his thoughts, offering a comforting arm. Molly. Molly deserved a damehood or a sainthood. Sherlock Holmes had never been one to admire selflessness or compassion, not until he realised how much he needed it. And she had been there, when no one else had, expecting nothing. Sherlock surprised her by smiling and whisking her unto the dance floor. Of course, this was partially motivated by his absurd need to keep an eye on the bride and groom, but the smile she gave him distracted him from this task for two full songs.

When Molly went to go get a drink, Sherlock got out of the way of the dancers and continued to watch them. Mary's parents had just come back onto the floor, and they were blocking his view of John and Mary. He stayed where he was, afraid of looking suspicious. Eventually, the pair was in view. The sight of the bride draped over his friend's shoulder, coupled with the swelling note of the stupidest, most sentimental song he'd ever heard and the effect of wine he should not have drank sparked another deep sense of melancholy, and he cursed himself. _Stop overreacting. _He ran through the worst case scenario in his head, yet again.

They might leave London. That could happen. Mary liked to travel, and either one of them might decide to move for work.

Or John might just...stop. Stop following Sherlock around. Stop dropping in at 221B. That was the one that didn't bear thinking about. Although he supposed he'd better think about it. Because it was so possible. _Look at him. He doesn't need me. _A little voice that'd stood in for a conscious for three years kept telling him that. _He doesn't need you._

It wasn't a very good conscious. Not nearly as good as John Watson.

Sherlock was beginning to feel desperate. This was not the place to be thinking these things. John would look at him any minute now and know he wasn't okay. John always knew.

And if John asked, he couldn't lie. Not tonight. Not when he was more vulnerable than he'd been in probably his whole life.

He was actually shaking. He hadn't broken down like this since that bloody hound.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?"

Sherlock whispered the worst swear he knew under his breath and put on a smile.

"Yes, John, I'm fine. I just need to go find Moll-"

John was right in front of him, Mary on his arm, and suddenly his hand was on Sherlock's. Sherlock tried to shrug away at first, feeling as though he needed to defend himself, but his friend's face was so concerned.

"Sherlock. I know you're not."

The groom exchanged a look with his bride, who smiled encouragingly and released him, slipping off to give the friends some amount of privacy. Sherlock watched her go, searching her for any trace of resentment or disapproval.

"Sherlock. Look at me."

The gentle hand no longer held him, but the gentle smile was waiting for him to pay attention.

"I appreciate that you care about my wife's approval of you, but let this be about you for a second. How are you?"

Sherlock almost smiled, studying his friend's patient expression. John knew him so well. And here he was, confronting his friend's fear with him yet again, a steady rock and refuge. Patient, willing, kind. Not angry in the least.

Or was he misreading him? Seeing what he wanted to see? Why should he consider himself an expert on John's feelings? He'd botched up human interaction all his life; what made him think that he could unriddle the most complicated man he'd ever met?

John looked at him with an expression that indicated he was ready to be amused or comforting. Whatever Sherlock needed.

"Come on then. Out with the worst of it."

That voice, that voice, it wouldn't go away. So many times he'd cursed it or thanked it. But now he wanted to do both. Because it was completely down to that rash, impulsive little voice that his words, meant to be composed, reassuring, and the first stones of a new wall were, instead, a sob. A wet, unpleasant, weak sound, like a wounded animal; a sound he'd never quite forgive himself for making.

It was a sound that immediately caused his friend to move toward him, not away.

He couldn't control it, nor the words that followed.

"John...John, I..."

He hid his face. Crying was undignified, and he was Sherlock Holmes. Nothing without dignity.

John didn't care about dignity, or whether it was proper for his best friend to cry at his wedding. He just wrapped his arms around his friend, long enough to reassure him, and when they parted he kept hold of his wrists.

Sherlock looked down at his feet, then over John's shoulder, then at the left side of John's face, cursing all existing and non-existing deities for eyes that filled with tears. _Sherlock Holmes __**does not cry, **_he told himself, then stopped, because it was futile.

"John...I need you. I don't want you to leave."

His voice during his infancy was stronger and louder than this whisper he'd adopted, but John heard him, and the good doctor smiled, taking his friend in his arms again. "Yeah, it's okay, Sherlock. I know. I'm not leaving. Not. Ever."


End file.
